Losing Control
by MaiTai1327
Summary: Hannibal plans everything with great care, and slowly, effectively he gets inside Will's head, trying to manipulate him into madness. He is close to winning. But, at one point, things start to go awry... Alternative storyline after ep 10. Hannibal/Will, dark romance.
1. Chapter 1 The First Cut

**Thanks so much to ****Jennyyu73, **ninelf95 and ChelsaOfBakerStreet for the wonderful betawork.

* * *

**Chapter 1: The First Cut**

Before Hannibal Lecter carried out his manipulations, he had pondered every possible outcome. Will might timely realize what's happening to him, and he might break free. Or someone else might identify the symptoms – either the symptoms of the illness or the symptoms of the doctor's efforts to shape Will's mind for his own desires. Maybe Jack Crawford. Or Alana Bloom. Or another expert psychiatrist Will might encounter on his trips with the FBI.

Hannibal tried to scheme applicable responses for any situation that might occur. He was sure that he was capable of handling any trouble that could try to spoil his perfect work of art. He counted every way and he felt that no matter what kind of difficulties might come, they all could lead to the creation of his final masterpiece.

The one thing he did not consider - and if someone had suggested it, he would have still eliminated it from the group of possibilities worth his time and thoughts – was his own mind betraying him.

No way.

He has never had any difficulties with controlling the slightest gestures he made. He could stay composed under the most surreal circumstances, and even while doing the most pleasurable things like killing his prey he could anytime decide with cold self-assurance if he wanted to go on or stop. The solidity of his own mental capacity has never been questioned by him; he could do whatever he wanted. He could pretend anything he felt like; he could fake human emotions he didn't have. He could reply to all kind of questions with self-confidence, creating proper lies in a split second. He could manipulate anything and anyone he needed to, and his personality never failed to serve him perfectly. He soon learnt to stop fearing that his mind could prove unstable in extreme situations or his own thoughts could deceive him. Because they never did. It was as sure as the sun rises in the morning – like the laws of physics. They don't need to be queried or recalculated, since they always work the way they should. Since there is no other way.

And now that's exactly what's happening to him. The laws of nature are falling apart... Everything's falling apart.

* * *

It starts on a Monday evening.

It's almost completely dark outside. Cold wind howls, carrying fractured tree-branches and dried, grey leaves. The night brings the bleak promise of the imminent winter.

The doorbell rings.

Hannibal is just about to loosen his tie and sit down in his study to draw the contours of a Venetian palace, but now, hearing the ringing, he neatens his suit jacket and walks towards the door with concinnous steps.

It's Will Graham who stands in the doorway. He is extremely pale like a corpse, his eyes reddening from delirium. He has a seizure or is just about to have one, shuddering with horror. Hannibal wonders how Will was capable of finding his way here, to the psychiatrist's private home in this state of mind.

"Come in," he says, unnecessarily. It's obvious that Will is unable to hear him right now.

As Hannibal steps aside, the younger man stumbles in. Hannibal helps him to get off his coat, and then he escorts him to the living room. Will cannot really control his actions. He collapses on the floor.

"I can't do this anymore," he wheezes, "I'll go insane... I don't know... I..."

He cannot utter another normal word, he just groans, hitting his head against the carpet. Hannibal calmly sits down on the couch, watching Will crawling on the floor. He enjoys the moment not because of sick sadism but because it shows how close he is to achieving his goals. Will is almost in ruins. He is right at the edge of falling to pieces...

Five minutes pass, and Hannibal decides it's time to give Will a slight hint of comfort. He plans the motion with care, as he always does. He should slowly reach out and pat the other man's left shoulder. He even feels the suitable strength in the tip of his fingers he should use to be comforting enough but not too friendly. Will shouldn't get too much solace at this point. Will should subconsciously feel that he is not completely alone in the room, and that's all. Hannibal prepares for the gesture, leans forward and starts to move his hand by degrees...

And the next thing he recalls is kneeling on the floor next to Will's agonized, crumpled body and holding him in his arms. It's not a professional, reserved embrace. He clings to Will's shaking limbs as if he wanted to crush him. The grip is so tight that it's painful for Hannibal too. He feels the coolness of Will's clothes, Will's forehead pressed against his shoulder... Will's spasmodic breathing... The fluttering heartbeats... The illness's sweet, heavy scent filling his lungs...

When Hannibal realizes what he's doing, he abruptly lets the other man loose. It's not that it would be overmuch inappropriate for a psychiatrist to hug a patient to console him, or it would be inevitably a wrong decision to make, but what surprises him – and disturbs him – is that he did not mean to do it at all.

What happened?

His kneecaps hurt; he must have dropped to his knees without any restraint.

Maybe Will did it. He might have dragged Hannibal down onto the floor with a feverish, unconscious pull at the doctor's forearm. That sounds like a correct explanation.

But Hannibal knows that it's not the truth. Will keeps his arms around his own chest, trembling, eyes closed. He is not aware of anything happening around him, he did not react to the firm grip either. Will is locked amongst the nightmares in his head, and there's no way he could have apprehended Hannibal when he was about to pat his shoulder.

Hannibal does not like the idea that it was he himself who started the embrace, but there aren't any other reasonable explanations, so he has to accept it. He tries to put the recognition in the back of his mind, though. He helps Will up from the floor and lays him down on the coach. He brings a blanket from upstairs and - with decent accuracy - he covers him.

* * *

Hannibal starts to prepare a dish for tomorrow because he feels unable to sleep. He's still mildly displeased with the fact that he did something unwittingly. It left a hint of insecurity in him. Was it a sign of some kind of illness? Does not seem so. He feels physically as strong and balanced as ever.

He puts a cutting board on the kitchen counter, and after cautiously washing a head of broccoli, he places the vegetable on the board. He chooses the appropriate knife and moves the blade to slice up the broccoli. The raw vegetable is massive, and the knife slips. Hannibal watches his left hand with disbelief, acute pain spreading in his muscles. He cut his palm.

For average people, these kinds of household accidents belong to everyday routine, but not for him. He always prepares his food precisely, with punctilious attention to details. During cooking, he has never ever cut his hand before.

When he was young, about sixteen or seventeen maybe, he had a recurring dream about cutting meat with a butterfly sword. _He started cutting a chunk of red meat on a clean, pale kitchen top, and as he proceeded, he tried to cut thinner slices. Always a bit thinner, just a bit. And at some point, he realized that he had been slashing his own hand for a while. He looked down and saw his own flesh in a pool of blood. The blade of the butterfly sword did not stop, it went on cutting his hand into paper-thin slices... _He often dreamt about it at that time. It was not really a nightmare, for he felt no pain, and it wasn't truly scary for him either. He could not figure out why he kept dreaming about it.

Now, as he watches the gash opening on his left palm and releasing hot, dark blood onto the kitchen counter, he remembers the dream and feels faint uneasiness about it.

He cannot stop the blood from spattering the cutting board and the green flowers of the broccoli. Red splashes on the kitchen top and even on the floor. It's annoying. He just cleaned the whole kitchen this evening, and now he has to start it all over again. Not to mention his expensive silk shirt – the left sleeve's getting smudged with the salty, incarnadine fluid.

Hannibal detects that there is too much blood running down on his arm. The cut must be deep. He decides to go to the bathroom to obtain his medical kit. The incision needs to be stitched up.

* * *

Hannibal falls asleep in the armchair in his study, leaving the door open to the living room where Will rests. The doctor wakes up every twenty or thirty minutes just to quickly check on Will, and then he sleeps a bit again. His sleep never lasts long because as soon as Will starts moving, Hannibal wakes up too.

When the morning light creeps in through the gaps of the brocade curtains, Hannibal gets up from the armchair. He sees that the wound kept leaking through the night. Maybe the suture doesn't hold flawlessly. After all, he could use only his right hand for stitching. He has to replace the bandage soon.

Will sits up on the couch. His movements are uncertain like a drunkard's.

"Doctor Lecter?" He calls with hoarse, hazy words. "Are you there?"

Hannibal walks into the room, right up to the younger man.

"Good morning, Will," he says. He has already changed and adjusted his suit and looks as composed as ever. Will is the total opposite of the picture. His hair is disheveled; his skin is a mixture of glowing red and unhealthy yellowness, and cold sweat oozes on his neck. His light colored eyes seem dark with despair.

"I, I can't remember," he stammers.

"What's the last thing you are able to recall?" The doctor asks patiently.

Will's struggling to form a suitable answer, but suddenly his eyes find Hannibal's bandaged left hand, and he freezes.

"Oh, no," Will's voice trembles. "Did I hurt you?"

"Will," Hannibal pauses for a moment, realizing the opportunity his stupid accident has created, and then he adds softly, "It's alright. It's nothing serious."

"But, but, was it me? Did I hurt you?" Will demands to know, panic rising in his voice.

"Yes," The doctor tells the lie with no hesitation, making a slight gesture towards his study, his desk and the paper knife resting on top of a case filled with documents. Will shivers as he catches sight of the silvery knife. Hannibal goes on, "But I assure you it's completely my fault. I understand your condition better than anyone else. I should have taken care to avoid an unfortunate situation like that..."

"What happened?"

"You were not aware of what you were doing. You had a seizure," He gives an evasive answer.

"But how did I injure you?"

"I made you lie down on the couch, and then I walked into my study to read before going upstairs to sleep. And suddenly you stood there by the bookshelves, and you just grabbed the paper knife. I tried to take it away from you," Hannibal's voice trails off.

Will rubs his forehead with a nervous, quick motion. "Can you show me the wound?" he asks weakly. "Please?"

Hannibal finds the request odd, but the bandage needs changing anyway, so he nods ruminatingly. He pulls a chair next to the younger man, and puts his injured hand on the arm of the couch, taking care not to stain the drape with the leaking bandage. He starts to slowly move the soaked, reddish brown fabric away. Will gasps when the gash becomes visible.

"No, no," Will mumbles. He puts his fingers around Hannibal's wrist and pulls the doctor's hand in front of him so that he can have a better look at the wound. It's kind of discrepant. Will's hands are shaking violently, while the doctor's fingers are so calm and stable as if he were not a living creature but a statue of ice.

"I'm so sorry, Doctor Lecter," Will bursts out, staring at the huge, swollen wound all across the other man's palm with the black stitches. "I'm incredibly sorry. Should I fetch you some medicine or call an ambulance or...?"

"You don't need to worry about that," Hannibal replies with an indulgent half-smile. "It's really nothing I can't handle. I can take care of a wound."

"I almost cut your palm into two." Will moves backwards with repulse, his eyes following the hand he's letting go of. "I'm truly dangerous. I should not go to public places. I should get locked up somewhere."

"Is that what you believe?"

"I, I don't know what to believe anymore. I could have killed you!" This last sentence seems to unbalance Will even more. He buries his face in his hands.

The doctor likes the echo of the word _killing_ lingering in his mind while he's leaning back on the chair, keeping his eyes on Will.

He feels a glimpse of satisfaction. Last night was only a moment of derailment; it must have been temporary tiredness. Now he turned the pathetic accident into an advantageous situation. It's over then. He is going to continue the conception he drafted, and everything will be in place.


	2. Chapter 2 Fever

**Chapter 2: Fever**

Will feeds his dogs on the front porch of his house, and then he starts pacing back and forth in the rooms. Paper bags of fast food and other scattered litters of his struggles with keeping up his daily routine are rustling around his ankles with every nervous step he takes. Though his head is about to explode from the burning pain, he feels unable to stop and sit down.

He cannot think of anything else but the fact that he cut up Hannibal's left hand. And the way the doctor tried to pretend that the wound wasn't serious just makes him feel more miserable.

Hannibal asked Will to rest on the couch while he was preparing breakfast, but Will was not able to just sit there, doing nothing, so he followed the doctor to the kitchen. Maybe he shouldn't have, since it was even more disturbing for him to see Hannibal using his newly bandaged hand. As if he had not felt anything at all, he grabbed kitchen equipment and forks with it, though his fingers were cramped by the pain of the unnatural, gruesome straining. Will tried to help him, but the doctor declined the offer in a standoffish manner. So Will took his coat and left the house because he was certain that he could no longer stand the sight of Hannibal torturing himself like this.

Now he feels bad about his leaving. He doesn't know what to do. He should have helped somehow, but he has really no idea how.

He is only able to think clearly when he takes off his clothes, steps under the shower and silvery water gushes, flowing down on his shoulders.

Until this point, he did not have enough strength to ponder over the hallucinations he had last night. Now he's trying to remember. _There was the stag with those unworldly eyes full of shades... Bloody footprints on the white, endless floor... Ice... Everything was covered with ice..._ And there is another picture he can quickly recall without any difficulty. He saw Hannibal.

It was the first time he had a hallucination about Doctor Lecter, and it was a perplexing one. He saw a vision about the doctor pulling him into a forceful, eager embrace. It is strange to think of that dream or delusion or whatever it was. _If he closes his eyes, he can still feel Hannibal's arms encircling him. It hurts. Everything's dark, dizzy and hollow, and the only real thing is the man kneeling next to him, holding Will's head up from the cold, hard floor, keeping him locked in a hug that is more likely to kill him than to comfort him. The grip is violent, immoderate, but however painful it is, it still makes Will feel safe. As if the doctor had stepped into the world of nightmares to save him. It's not the saving that heroes do, more like saving as a serious operation – maybe even more hurtful and risky than the illness itself._

As Will's standing under the shower, and cool water is running down on his anguished body, he finds a greenish-blackish bruise on his arm where – according to his delusions – Hannibal grabbed him. Though he thinks it must be a coincidence, he cannot take his eyes off of the mark. He squeezes the bruise with the tip of his fingers, strangely enjoying the ache deriving from it. This pain seems to be the only thing able to tie him to sanity.

* * *

Will is worried about the wound he inflicted upon Hannibal, and he is afraid to stay home alone for the evening. What if he sleep-walks or has another seizure? What if he wanders off from the house and hurts someone again?

He decides to visit Hannibal for dinner. He has no idea whether the doctor expects guests for the evening. If Hannibal has company, it will surely be awkward when Will appears in the doorway unannounced. But he feels deeply that he needs to know if Hannibal is alright.

He goes to the nearby shop dedicated to passing travelers to buy some sort of gift for Hannibal. He wants to make it up to Hannibal for cutting him with the paper knife and for visiting him out of the blue again, but he doesn't know what to give to a man like Doctor Lecter. Here at the store everything's cheap, common and shoddy. It's better not to give anything like these trumperies to Hannibal.

He finally settles for buying a bottle of wine. He doesn't have the slightest clue which brand to choose, so he takes the most expensive bottle from the shelf without even reading the label, and staggers along to the cashier's desk. Though the fever and the weakness start to take over, he tries to focus on his actions with all the strength he has.

* * *

When Will arrives at the doctor's house he can barely walk anymore. He feels so dizzy that he has to press the button of the door-bell three times to make it work. He leans his head against the frame, trying hard not to collapse on the doorstep.

He does not hear Hannibal opening the door, he only realizes that the doctor is there when he firmly grasps Will by the arm and guides him into the house.

"Do you know where you are?" Hannibal asks while making him sit down on the couch in the living room.

"Yes, yes, I came here intentionally," Will mumbles, "I mean, I wanted to see if you needed help with anything... because of the wound, you know... I was wondering if you could use some assistance..."

"I'm alright," The doctor answers with cool dispassionateness, "But you look like you are going through intense pain. Have you taken any medicine yet?"

"Aspirins." Will sighs, trying not to give himself over to the fatigue pulling him down. He remembers that he is still holding the bottle of wine in his right hand, so he moves the present shakily in the direction of the other man. "This is for you," he mutters. He planned to say thank-you to Hannibal for his support, but now he feels too weak to shape fine-spoken sentences.

The doctor takes the bottle of wine from him. Will's vision is blurred by the pain, but he can still see from the commiserative, faint smile appearing in the corners of Hannibal's mouth that the wine he chose is far from the elegant, exquisite gift he intended to give.

"Thank you, it's very attentive of you," the doctor says anyway, and politely carries the bottle to the dining room as if he were planning to make use of it soon, though Will is sure that Hannibal will neither drink it nor ever serve it at table.

"You need to take a rest," the doctor says decidedly, returning to him. "You can sleep a bit in the guest room."

He helps Will up from the couch and escorts him upstairs with authoritative resoluteness, opening a room for him not far from the stairs. The room reflects a taste for expensive decorations, for the walls are wrapped with pale damask and the bed is individually constructed by a famous Scandinavian furniture designer. Hannibal helps Will to sit down on the bronze colored cashmere blanket covering the bed. Will kicks off his shoes and leans back on the pillows. The whole room is spinning around him and the pain is burning in his head like fire.

Hannibal puts his uninjured hand on Will's forehead, checking his temperature.

"Could you keep your hand there, please?" Will asks because it's so good to feel the cold, calm touch on his temple.

Hannibal obeys, letting his right palm linger on Will's forehead.

"Can you protect me?" Will asks feebly.

"Protect you from what?"

Will takes a deep, tormented breath. "From myself. From the monster I'm becoming."

"Are these two the same in your estimation?"

The pain is increasing in Will's head. He finds it hard to utter another word, but struggles for keeping his mind clear.

"What do _you_ think?" Will returns the question.

The doctor watches him with an apathetic, professionally distant expression on his face.

For this silence makes him feel unaided, Will clears his throat and asks bitterly, "Do you believe I'm capable of doing something horrible? Like purposely hurting others? Like killing people?"

"Everyone's capable of these things under certain circumstances."

Will closes his eyes. The answer pushes him further into the abyss. His head burns with shrewd pain, making him feel as if he were pressing his forehead against melting iron.

"Will I ever be alright again?" he asks wearily.

Hannibal leans forward, so close that their lips nearly touch.

"I will help you find a way to the person you truly are," the doctor whispers, it's almost just a breath. Will feels the fingers pushing into the curls of his hair, the weight of the other man lowering the mattress of the bed, and he finds himself trapped in a state of mind that's neither delusion, nor reality. Nor anything in between. He can only recognize the no longer rhythmical throbs of his own heart and Hannibal's shadow covering him. Red spots are dancing in front of his eyes, and suddenly everything seems heavy, formless, even asphyxiating...

When he comes to his senses, he has no idea how much time has passed, but he is still lying in the same position, with Hannibal leaning on top of him, only few inches of space between their bodies. Hannibal's dark eyes are clouded by an inscrutable emotion. He murmurs something Will cannot understand. Will assumes that the doctor is using a foreign language.

A minute later, Hannibal straightens his back and starts adjusting the crumpled sleeves of his shirt.

"What did it mean?" Will asks shyly.

Hannibal lifts his eyebrows, showing that he cannot see the point of the question.

"Your last sentence," Will adds as an explanation.

"The one I told you about finding your way to your true self?"

"No, I mean the next one."

The expression on Hannibal's face freezes. He stiffly finishes the arranging of his suit and remains silent for a few seconds. Then he replies dryly, "I did not say anything afterwards."

"You said something in a different language," Will remarks.

"No, I didn't." The answer is surprisingly chilly.

"Was it your mother tongue?" Will insists on talking about the topic though he perceives that it's inconvenient.

"I did not say anything else," the doctor repeats, "You must have imagined it. I suggest that you should sleep a few hours; you must be tired. In the meantime, I'll cook dinner for you."

Will is just about to start to believe that it was a hallucination. It might have been the fever again... But then he beholds something in Hannibal's eyes he has never seen before: uncertainty. As though the doctor were not sure either if he said those foreign words or not...

Hannibal turns in the direction of the door and wants to leave.

"Your wound is bleeding," Will says, looking at the red speckles appearing on the clean, white fabric of the bandage.

The doctor catches sight of the speedily growing bloodstains on his left hand, and then he walks out of the room without giving any response.


	3. Chapter 3 Knife

**Chapter 3: Knife**

Hannibal starts to prepare _ossobuco alla milanese_ with _gremolata_ sauce for dinner. It needs time and his full attention, and he hopes it will prevent him from thinking too much of the ridiculous incident when he told Will some words in Lithuanian. He can't decide which one is more irritating: the fact that he said something he did not mean or that he can't remember what he was talking about. For the only thing he can clearly recall is that he was so close to Will that he could literally feel the younger man's burning fever. The room spun, the heat crept inside his joints, and he got lost in the sensation. He must have said something then. If he concentrates, he can recall the faint memory of talking to Will in Lithuanian, but nothing specific. He could have said anything! He could have betrayed dangerous secrets! How could this happen to him?

He knows that he should consider himself lucky because he spoke Lithuanian, since Will was not able to understand his words - whatever they were - but this aspect just makes him feel more frustrated. He has not used the Lithuanian language for more than two decades, and there's a good reason for that; it reminds him of his childhood, bringing back the memories of being vulnerable, abused and weak, and it's definitely not something he ever wants to relive. He despises anything that ties him to those times, and it deeply disgusts him that he talked in Lithuanian less than an hour ago. It almost makes him feel nauseated.

He tries to focus on cutting the herbs for the sauce, but it doesn't really help. He cannot think of anything else except the mysterious words he said. The unintentional hug and the slipping of the knife last night could have been considered as unfortunate accidents, and he might have forgotten about them soon, but _this_... This is too much. This is dangerous and alarming. All the hard work he put up to build his perfect mask and his balanced life might become corrupted. He cannot just do and say things he has never planned to, maybe a pizza delivery boy can behave like that. Ordinary people can talk about whatever comes into mind, chattering about anything without giving a second thought to it, but not he, Hannibal Lecter. He has to have accurate control over every detail. He cannot make any more mistakes. Not a single one.

But, how? How could he make sure that this stops? What should he do to feel confident again in anything he does? He tries to set the question as a psychiatrist. What would he suggest to a patient who told him about these symptoms?

He doesn't like any of the answers he can think of, so he turns to check the meat on the stove, pushing his concerns aside. He will regain stability. He is just tired because he hasn't slept enough. It certainly just worsens if he ponders over it too much. Everything is alright with him, and the only thing he should do is to prove it. He has to feel in control, to feel the power, to feel that he is still capable of doing anything he purposes. He has to kill someone tonight.

As soon as the idea occurs, he feels relieved. Yes, that's definitely the answer. He is going to kill someone, and the elevating, absorbing feeling of omnipotence will clear his mind. And these laughable doubts will disappear. He should go out to find a proper victim right after dinner, before anything else could distract him from his plan.

* * *

Hannibal has to put down the tray three times while carrying it upstairs. His wounded hand trembles from the exertion. Though he tries not to pay attention to the increasing pain, he has to stop a few times to get back the vigor in his injured arm. This cut really is nasty.

Before he walks into the guest room, waking up Will, he musters so much strength that he can carry the tray without showing any sign of ache or weakness. He puts Will's dinner straight on the night-stand.

He is not sure whether Will slept or not. The younger man is lying awake on the bed, staring at the ceiling with his sunken, reddening eyes. Every breath he takes is exhausted, erratic, and the expression on his face looks drawn.

"You are not feeling any better," The doctor states, helping him to sit up on the bed.

"I, I'm cold," Will wheezes. "I dreamt about a room made of ice... And my head is burning like fire at the same time... Does that sound plausible to you?" He smiles ruefully.

"You have high fever," Hannibal responds. "I brought you antipyretics as well."

The doctor places the medicine on the tray, next to a glass of water.

"Thank you." Will sighs and turns to have a look at the burden of the silver tray. "It looks delicious," he says, catching sight of the food Hannibal cooked for him. The doctor is contented with the brief compliment because he knows that it's the best he could expect from Will.

For a while, he watches Will eating his dinner, and then he leaves the room. He walks downstairs to put on his long, grey coat and his scarf. Afterwards, he opens his medical kit and packs a few pairs of plastic gloves, syringes, phials with narcotics and duct tape into his handbag.

When he is ready, he returns to the guest room. Will has already finished his dinner, and he is lying under the creasy blanket, half-asleep. As the doctor arrives, Will lifts his head up a bit.

"You have your coat on," he remarks.

Hannibal starts to gather the pieces of the tableware. He replies during the last movements, when he put everything back on the tray. "Yes. I'm meeting someone."

Will stares at him for a moment. At first, he looks puzzled, and then he seems to realize what the doctor's words might have meant.

"You'll have a date tonight?" he asks and hastily sits up on the bed. "I'm sorry, I had no idea... er... Surely, you want me to leave. I'll get ready in a minute, and..."

"You can stay," Hannibal interrupts him moderately, "I'm going out."

"But, but I don't want to disturb you, really." Will must be quite embarrassed, for he is folding his hands nervously.

"You won't."

"Are you sure it cannot cause any trouble if I stay? If... if..." Will stutters, "Maybe, you would like to bring her home..."

Hannibal supposed that he would be amused by Will's awkward reaction and he would enjoy the side-effects of the lie he told, but he feels a cold sting to his heart instead.

"You can stay here, I'll meet her at her place," he gives a brief response. Suddenly, the only thing he wants is to get over with this conversation. "Here," he says and places a bunch of keys on Will's night-stand. "I'll take the spare ones, you can use these, if necessary. There's food in the kitchen, and I'll bring you some clothes for the night and pain-killers before leaving. Anything else you might need?"

"No, thanks." Will seems a bit surprised. "I'm not a child, I can take care of myself."

"I know," the doctor answers with imperturbable coolness. "I just want to make sure that you feel comfortable as my guest."

"Er, thank you, I'll be okay. Have a nice evening, then," Will smiles at him tamely.

Hannibal walks out of the room with the tray, forcing every muscle of his face to keep his expression relaxed. He feels an indefinable emotion similar to disappointment that makes it difficult for him to look impassible. The casual, almost cheerful way Will told him to have a nice evening with his date cut him to the quick. It feels as humiliating and insulting as someone had punched him in the face in front of a crowd of people, though he cannot name any sensible reasons why he should resent hearing those friendly words. What else could have Will told him in a situation like that?

Whether he understands it or not, he cannot help feeling derided, and bitterness darkens his eyes as he walks down the stairs.

* * *

The chilly night fills the streets with thick fog. Raindrops run down on the shady walls of the buildings, and the obscure darkness mingles with the pale, dim light of the streetlamps. There are few strollers outside; most people stay at home for the night.

Hannibal is choosing his victim with great care. Normally, he wouldn't bother to check the abilities of his prey, since he is physically fit enough to capture any kind of person he wants to, but now he has to decide cautiously because of his wounded left hand. He doesn't want to take any risks. He spends more than three hours with driving up and down the streets, watching people passing by. He needs someone who is in good shape with supposedly healthy innards, so prostitutes, drug addicts and homeless people are out of the question, but the person he would choose should not be too athletic either.

Finally, he sees the proper victim. The girl is standing in a parking lot, nervously shifting her weight from one leg to another, wrapping her shivering limbs with her big, white coat. She cannot be more than twenty. She's obviously waiting for an acquaintance to pick her up. No one else can be seen around: just the girl with her light-colored coat. The scene is perfect.

Hannibal does everything with routine. He parks his car not far from the lonely girl, prepares a syringe with narcotic and steps out of the vehicle. The whole procedure doesn't take more than a minute. He walks up to the girl so quickly that she doesn't even have the time to recognize what's happening to her when the doctor thrusts the needle into the side of her neck. He uses his bandaged left hand to muffle her screams, while she's blacking out, and then he drags her to his car. In the next second she is already in the trunk. Hannibal takes her coat off and binds her wrists and ankles with the duct tape. He sticks a few pieces of the tape over her mouth as well to make sure she cannot start screaming during the travel if she regains consciousness.

He drives her out of the city, far from the built-up area and the busy roads. A country cottage is located there, on the northern side of a large forest. No one knows that the cottage is his because he bought it using fake identity and he always makes sure that nobody sees him going in and out of the building. He parks his car behind the high walls of the concrete fence and drops a blanket over the license plate. No one ever comes to visit this austere, desolate place, but he is always more than careful to cover his tracks.

Killing is like drawing for him: creating something that must be flawless, a work of art. It should be done with style, with elegance, and everything must stay precisely under control. Nothing can happen that might spoil the beautiful picture. Every motion, every tiny detail must remain the part of the perfect creation.

The door of the cellar can only be opened by switching off a code lock, but that doesn't mean any hindrance to him, since he knows the order of the numbers, and he walks down the stairs. The cellar looks like an operating room of a hospital. The floor and the walls are covered with white, shiny ceramic tiles, and there are pieces of medical equipment, scalpels, scissors, drills and similar tools all over the shelves. An operating-table stands by the opposite wall.

Hannibal checks the control panel of the alarm system, and then he covers the floor with plastic sheets. Though the tiles can easily be cleaned after any kind of bloodshed, he likes to make sure that the blood doesn't spatter anything in the room unnecessarily.

He walks back to his car and brings the girl down the stairs in his arms as if she were the bride at a grotesque wedding. It's difficult to keep her from kicking him, for she is starting to slowly regain consciousness, and the doctor's injury doesn't make things easier for him either, but he is strong and she is still dazed, so he manages to carry her into the cellar. He pushes her down onto the covered floor and steps away from her to brace himself against the wall, to muster some physical strength to proceed.

He turns to one of the shelves to choose a knife for cutting her neck through. The girl, seeing the big knife in her attacker's hands starts to cry. Her body is shaking. Hannibal kneels down next to her, wondering which method he should follow today.

He will slash her throat like a chicken's, and while she's bleeding comes the most pleasurable part, he will cut her organs out, one by one.

First, he needs plastic protective clothing to preserve the cleanness of his suit, so he gets up from beside the silently weeping girl. The next step will be lifting her up on the operating-table and strapping her down. He keeps the protective clothes in a locked closet not far from the entrance of the cellar, and he is planning to walk there to get one of them...

But he suddenly stops and does not make a move. He feels inapprehensible coldness spreading in his bones, and he can sense his own heartbeats quickening.

He abruptly kneels back beside the sobbing girl and turns the knife in her direction.

He does not aim for her throat; he just takes the knife and thrusts it into her flesh as deep as possible with all his strength. He retreats the blade with a forceful tug, and then he stabs the girl again. And then he hauls the knife and pushes it into her chest, and stabs her again and again and again...

He stops only when he is so exhausted that he collapses on the floor next to the girl's dead body. Even one stab with this knife – not appropriate for piercing through human skin and tissues in a straight line – requires great effort. All the muscles are burning in his arms as if they were stuffed with glowing ember, and he has to struggle for every breath he takes because his lungs are about to rip his chest open, they are heaving so desperately. Panting heavily, he presses his forehead against the plastic sheet dripping with blood.

He needs half an hour to recover so much that he can sit back up from the ground and look around.

Everything is covered with bright red blood. All his clothes, his face, his hair, the floor, the walls... He must have hit an artery while the girl was still alive. The room looks like a slaughter-house. Nothing is composed, positioned nor directed – the whole place is a mess. He had soon killed the girl, but he did not even notice when she died. Looking over the general appearance of the wounds, he estimates that he must have stabbed the corpse at least forty times.

He throws a confounded glance at his left palm. The cut looks ghastly. He used his injured arm as support during the stabbing, holding up all the weight of his forceful motions with his left hand. Now the bandage hangs in disjointed pieces, the stitches became unfixed and the gash is open, leaking reddish-yellowish liquid onto the floor.

He lifts his head up slowly, and the blood freezes in his veins when he takes in the sight of the room again.

He tries hard not to think of anything while he automatically collects the knife from the floor, takes off his clothes soaking with blood and walks through the door in the corner of the cellar to the bathroom to take a shower.


	4. Chapter 4 The Study

**Chapter 4: The Study**

Will lies awake on the bed of the guest room, staring into the darkness. He can hear the howling of the icy wind through the windowpanes and the quick drum of raindrops hitting the strong walls of the house.

Sometimes, he wonders if the noises are real or if it's just his mind playing tricks on him. His forehead throbs with pain, and if he closes his eyes, he can feel the unnatural heat of his eyelids. Even the air he breathes in seems to heat up instantly, burning his parched lips as he exhales. He has never felt this miserable and lonely in his whole life.

He wishes that Hannibal would come back soon and stop this suffering somehow. He has the feeling that if the doctor were there, it could give him strength to get through this horrible night. Every time the floor creaks in the hall, his heart gives a leap, and he trustingly hopes that the sound could mean the return of Hannibal, but it's always just the storm. He is alone in the grandiose, pedantically clean and orderly house, yet he cannot stop wondering how anyone can feel at home here. He finds this place more like a museum of elaborate style and exclusive taste than being where someone actually calls _home_.

He shouldn't have come here tonight in the first place. It was tactless of him to disturb the doctor, but he is too sick and too weak to get back home. Hannibal had plans for the evening, and Will almost spoiled them. Why is it that he always ends up being discourteous and uncouth even though he never tries to do anything insulting? At least he thinks he is doing nothing impolite, but it usually reveals to be quite rude.

Of course, he should have asked if Hannibal had plans for the night. Normal people would have done that. It should have been the first thing to ask before bursting into the doctor's home, giving him a worthless, low-quality bottle of wine and making himself comfortable in the guest room. He even had doubts if the time was appropriate for visiting. Why couldn't he just ask? Why is it that he always forgets about these things in the most embarrassing situations? He can only hope that meeting his mistress at her place and not here was Hannibal's original intention, and the doctor didn't have to alter his plans because of Will's impulsive visit.

Will closes his eyes; his head feels heavy on the pillows. He wonders how much longer he can endure the pain. He has to touch the skin on his forehead to make sure that it didn't start to get scorched by the unbearable heat of the fever.

Every minute seems like a hurtful eternity as he slowly starts to count the passing seconds because there is nothing else left for him to do. The ticking of the antique clock on the wall is nearly inaudible due to the pattering of the rain, and with every minute he enumerates, he can feel the fragments of his vitality fading away...

When he opens his eyes again, he sees ice. The walls are white, covered with an agleam coating. The windowpanes turned frosty, and it seems that the ice itself is glowing.

How could the dark room become filled with bleach-like white lights? He can see his frozen breaths leaving his trembling lips.

Will sits up on the bed. He hears the sound of the stag's hooves pound the floor outside of the room. He scrambles to his feet, heading for the door. For a moment, everything turns dark again, and then the unhealthy lights of the ice reappear. His head is spinning. He lurches out of the guest room and tries to keep his balance.

The stag is now walking down the stairs. The animal, translucent and dim, moves like a shadow as Will follows him. The stag disappears into the study when Will enters the living room. It's so cold there that he shudders uncontrollably.

Opening the door of the study hesitantly, he feels a kind of repulsion and suspects that he will see something he doesn't want to. However, he still steps inside, for he needs to know...

The room is so silent that it's positively eerie. The stag is standing by the desk, and a body completely painted with blood is lying in front of him. The animal must have been eating from the flesh of the corpse because red blood is running out of his mouth, dripping onto the carpet.

Will wants to stop this, to drive the stag away, so he grabs the silver paper knife from Hannibal Lecter's desk, steps forward and...

Suddenly, the blood, the dead body, the stag and the knife all disappear, and he realizes that he's standing in Hannibal's study alone, gasping wildly for breath.

_It was just a dream._

He walked in his sleep, and somehow he managed to arrive at the study, though he had to go down the stairs to achieve it. He turns on the light of the small lamp standing on the desk when he finds its switch in the murk.

"It's alright," he whispers to himself. "I'm at Hannibal Lecter's house, and it's..." He looks around, searching for a clock to check the time, but the abrupt motion is too much for his body at its current feeble state. He turns giddy, his legs crumple up, and he falls against the edge of the desk, dropping to his knees. He shoots out his hands to slow down the speed of the collision, but it's too late.

His jaw dashes against the surface of the furniture so hard that he can sense the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He grabs for support and staggers back to his feet, but involuntarily pushes down all the documents and writing materials from the desk.

"Oh, no, not that," Will moans. He feels the blood filling his mouth, and the only thing he wishes for is to get back upstairs to a bathroom to wash the salty liquid out, but he falls back to his knees instead and starts hastily collecting the papers and returning them to their original positions.

The task of cleaning up the papers is made particularly difficult by the fact that it had been so neatly organized before and it is impossible to put everything back to where they belong. He chucks a pile of documents onto the wooden slab, and then starts gathering the pens and pencils scattered throughout the room.

Will clenches his teeth albeit its sting. There is a twinge of pain in his head caused by the fever, but he doesn't stop searching for the fallen objects. When he was wondering how he could make his presence in Hannibal's home any more awkward, he should have added 'pretending to go through the doctor's private documents during his absence' to the list. No one would ever believe him that the papers were jumbled up because they fell off the desk thanks to his clumsiness.

He pushes the writing utensils into a box carved from some kind of rare tropical wood, though he is almost sure that the pens were not all stacked there, but he cannot remember the details, so he throws everything into the dark wooden box. He knocked an encyclopedia of brain-anatomy and a novel off of the desk as well, now he puts them back. A pile of drawings. He lifts them up from the ground and wants to place them beside the box of pens, but he changes his mind and pulls the pictures back in front of him. He feels like having a closer look at them.

They are all the own drawings of Hannibal, made with graphite, prepared with meticulous care. Will inspects the first one about a famous opera-house, and then he puts it aside. The next two are contour drawings of a Roman temple... The next four are Florentine street views...

As he turns to the next one, his heart skips a beat. The drawing he catches sight of, in the yellow light of the desk lamp, has nothing to do with architecture. It's beautiful both scary. The rush of emotions engulfing his tired mind when he sees it is so intense that he forgets about the salty, metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the burning-freezing fever, the pain, the illness... Everything.

He just keeps gawking at the drawing for long minutes.

* * *

Will carefully rolls up the drawing and hides it in the sleeve of his coat hanging in the hall. He is unfamiliar with the act of thieving, but he feels unable to part with the picture, so he decides to take it with him when he leaves Hannibal's house.

Of course, he could ask the doctor to give it to him, but he is not sure that he could talk about it at all. And maybe Hannibal wouldn't want to talk about it either.

Afterwards, he takes a quick shower and returns to the guest room to try to sleep some more. He falls into a deep slumber as soon as he sets his head down on the pillows. He doesn't have any more nightmares this time, and his fever seems to have abated during his sleep. His head doesn't hurt much. Maybe the pills he had taken started to work after all.

He rinses some clotted blood out of his mouth in the bathroom and takes a shower again. The fresh, brisk water gives back some of his strength he lost last night. Hannibal hasn't come back yet, so he is still alone in the huge house. Will takes some time to wash his hair, and then puts on the clothes the doctor gave him before leaving. It is a bit preposterous that Hannibal had prepared a fine silk shirt and an expensive suit for him. For a sick, weak person who can barely walk, struggles with fever, experiences various hallucinations and sees demons in his head... Really?! It's rather inconsiderate, though he is not sure whether Hannibal has any other kind of clothes in his closet.

After he finishes dressing up, he walks up to the mirror built into the door of the wardrobe to have a look at his appearance. He presumes that he would look atrocious, but after seeing his reflection, he realizes that the clothes fit almost perfectly and he appears quite normal in them. He wonders if he has ever looked this elegant before. Maybe at Aunt Marjorie's wedding, but that was at least ten years ago.

Only the purple bruises on his chin and the glimmering of a fever in his bloodshot eyes show signs of illness.

Will feels the strength to walk a bit, so he leaves the room and starts to explore the rest of the building. For a little while, he pretends that he is Hannibal Lecter as he walks up and down the house, inspecting the pieces of the luxurious furniture, imagining that they all belong to him. He softly touches the glistening, pristine surfaces, draws a brocade curtain and rotates a sculpture on the top of a cupboard. He plays with the idea of sitting down in the living room and reading over a newspaper, but the imagination of being Doctor Lecter starts to grow unappealing and creepy as he spends more than five minutes with it.

Will's mind does not work the same way as ordinary people's, and he can get too deep inside the feeling of being someone else. And imagining being Hannibal Lecter fills his soul with dark void and cold, hollow emptiness.

He struggles to drive the monition out of his head and to quickly get back to his former state of mind. He returns to the guest room and suddenly has an intense desire to rip Hannibal's clothes off of his body, just to feel less like him, but he fights the urge and sits down on the side of the bed instead, head in his hands.

* * *

Finally, he hears Hannibal's car arriving and the clank of the doctor's keys as he opens the front door. Will gets up from the bed and walks down the stairs to greet his host.

"Good morning, Will," the doctor says while closing the door. Hannibal's voice somehow sounds raspier and not as soft and balanced as usual.

He is taking off his coat, and Will realizes that the doctor wears a different suit, not the one he left the house in. This must be a long-term relationship then, if Hannibal keeps spare clothes at his lover's place.

Will feels hurt by the fact that Hannibal has never talked about her before. He almost started to believe that they could be true friends with the doctor, but supposedly it was just a delusion, he's acknowledging it now. He keeps telling his inner feelings and all the happenings of his life to Doctor Lecter during their sessions, but it was stupid of him to expect Hannibal to ever do the same. The doctor hasn't mentioned his serious relationship yet, not even once.

There are so many questions Will wants to ask. How old is she? What does she do for a living? Is her hair long or short? How does she spend her time? Is she talkative or quiet? What kind of foods does she like? But he isn't sure where to start, and he is almost certain that he will mess it up, but decides to give it a go anyway. He draws a deep breath.

"Is she pretty?" He asks bluntly. Well, it's not the best way to start the conversation, he admits. In fact, close to the worst.

There is no response.

As soon as he throws a wavering, unsettled glance at the doctor's face, he realizes right away that the timing of his inquiry could not be more inappropriate. Hannibal's expression appears tired and worn, and the fact that the doctor's left hand is freshly bandaged doesn't seem to be a good sign, either. Will can see that Hannibal is cross for some obscure reason. It's obvious that he really shouldn't have brought this topic up.

"What were you doing in my study?" Hannibal asks in a biting tone. He ignores Will's original question.

The abrupt mentioning of the study startles Will. Hannibal has just arrived home. How the hell could he find out about the study this soon, without even stepping a foot into the room?

"I sleep-walked and ended up there," Will replies quickly. That sounded anything but convincing...

He expects the doctor to tell him a scornful remark about how impolite it is to nose around in other people's home while they are away, and then to forget about the whole thing, inviting him over to the kitchen for breakfast and coffee, but quite the opposite. Hannibal stands still in the hall for a long minute, gazing, eyes so intent and cold as if he were frozen.

The silence makes Will feel too uncomfortable, and he clears his throat. The doctor slowly takes off his scarf.

"I suppose it's high time that you leave." Hannibal's voice is surprisingly hostile. He doesn't look at Will while speaking.

The straightforwardly indelicate statement astounds Will. He doesn't understand why the doctor is so unfriendly, but one thing is for sure: Hannibal wouldn't reveal the reason even if he asked.

Will thinks of the drawing he is about to steal from the doctor, and suddenly he doesn't mind leaving Hannibal's house in the least. He desires nothing more than to sit down at home, alone, and to spend the rest of his day with staring at the picture the doctor drew.


	5. Chapter 5 Explanation

**Chapter 5: Explanation**

As soon as Will leaves the house, Hannibal feels a glimpse of relief. Luckily, Will took the doctor's words seriously and exited hurriedly, so Hannibal doesn't need to worry about anyone's presence for the moment. He can finally let his guards down.

He is angry with himself. Why can't he be sure that he can control his own reactions? Why is that he has to be afraid of his own acts? Normally, he would have invited Will over to the kitchen for coffee and breakfast, inquired about how he was and questioned him about the ghastly bruises on his chin, but this time... This time he could not risk losing control of himself, so he had to send Will away as soon as possible.

And the study... He should have put up a facade, pretending that there was nothing annoying about Will entering his study. He should have tactfully queried about what happened there and not showed his concern... But the only thing he thought of – seeing that the door was closed and not half-open the way he had left it, which led him to realize that Will had spent some time in that room - was that he surely left something out in the open he shouldn't have, and Will stumbled upon it.

Basically, he made sure that after the unfortunate incident with that prying FBI trainee, Miriam Lass, nothing suspicious would ever be left either in his house or in his office. However, considering the troubling occurrences of the last few days, he was certain that there could be things he forgot about... And he was so resentful at his own irresponsibility that he needed an exorbitant amount of time to regain stability, and then it was too late. Will probably saw that there was something fishy about the study.

He makes sure, peering through the window, that Will really left the neighborhood, and then walks into the study. What was that? What did Will discover? There was definitely something Will saw there, the doctor is sure about that, since he recognized, on the younger man's face, the faint signs of being ill at ease when the study was mentioned.

He forgot about something. But what? Was it something important? Hopefully not. Will is not very skilled at pretending. He could not even have feigned semi-friendliness had he come across the truth of Hannibal being the Chesapeake Ripper.

What else could it be? There must be a reason why Will seemed embarrassed. The doctor ascertains that the younger man went through the papers on the desk, so he decides to check the documents and writings.

He starts with the drawings. Nothing suspicious there. Just pictures of architectural showplaces – nothing Will would have any afterthoughts about. The piles of documents, then. He reads over all the papers, but he still can't see anything suspicious. There aren't files of psychiatric cases amongst the writings that would be unethical to keep at home in an unlocked place. There aren't cut-out newspaper articles about serial killings. Not even compromising private letters.

Strangely, the fact that he cannot discern the source of Will's unease about the study doesn't make him feel any more relieved. On the contrary, it just confirms the theory that he has forgotten about something he shouldn't have, and he still can't think clearly enough to figure out what it is.

* * *

Doctor Bedelia Du Maurier lets Hannibal in with a slight nod. She was expecting his visit, since he called her before driving to her house. He walks across the hall, up to the large window in the parlor. The empty silence of the room falls heavy onto the slab of the burnished, dark coffee table and lingers around the armchairs.

For the first time in his life, he feels a connection towards his own patients. He is nervous about what he intends to share with Doctor Du Maurier, and he has to stop his right hand forcibly from fumbling with the bandage around his left palm. He doesn't want to look embarrassed, so he leans against the window-frame casually and fakes a relaxed expression on his face.

However, Doctor Du Maurier notices that something is off, for she asks, "Is that injury on your left hand in connection with your slightly vexed mood?"

At first, he wants to respond with: 'I'm not vexed, I just had a tiring day,' but then realizes that it would be a stupid, common mistake most patients make... _Denial_. It would be more convenient, of course, to deny it, but if he ever wants to get to the bottom of the problem, he cannot start the conversation with lies.

"I'm not feeling well," he answers silently, "And the least of my concerns is the wound. Something has been happening to me lately. I..." He pauses. He despises talking about it more than he imagined he would. "I, I can't remember some details of what I did in certain situations. Once I started talking in my mother tongue, though I did not want to say anything at all. It feels like as if I can't accurately control my actions anymore."

"When did this start occurring?" She doesn't seem to be surprised by Hannibal's words. In fact, he gets the strange feeling that she has been expecting these kind of problems that he has just talked about - though she looks distant and unfathomable as always.

"I noticed the signs in the last three days," he replies slowly.

"Was somebody with you at the time?"

"Once or twice. Will was there."

Doctor Du Maurier steps towards him with reserved pensiveness on her pale, oval face.

"You've surely realized that these are merely symptoms," she says. "Symptoms of a more serious and more complex problem buried deep inside. And you do know the reason of this problem, don't you?"

Hannibal can hardly hide his surprise. Reason? What reason? Is it something so obvious that she figured it out after hearing a couple of sentences? He has just started explaining the situation. He hasn't had the time to detail the facts yet...

"What sorts of reason are you insinuating?" he asks reluctantly.

"I've seen it on you from the first time you started talking about him. Will Graham." Her tone of voice is calm and decisive. "He slips in and out of delusions. He is unstable."

"And what, exactly, does that have to do with _my_ problem?"

She crosses her arms. "You want him so much to be like you that you forget about an important thing: it works both ways. He can only be like you, if you are like him."

"I still don't understand the point of your assumption," Hannibal says, lightly lifting his eyebrows.

"Will's seemingly going insane, and if you can't keep the necessary distances away, so will you."

He feels puzzled, which is very unusual for him. He didn't expect such a ruthless and mortifying response.

"Of course I can keep my distance, I'm a psychiatrist. I've had more complicated patients before." Why did the answer sound like he was being defensive? He quickly forces a self-confident half-smile on his face and adds, "I can assure you that I fully understand how a doctor-patient relationship should work."

"Will has always been much more to you than just a patient."

"He has. But that doesn't mean I can't keep the proper distance."

She watches him with a ruminating look on her face. "I suggest you – no matter what you believe the proper distance to be - should take a few steps back."

He gives no response, just turns to the window and follows the passing cars down the street with his eyes.

* * *

Hannibal sits at the desk in his study. He doesn't like to think of the conversation he had with Doctor Du Maurier, but he feels that he should pay some speck of attention to it and mustn't shove it to the back of his mind. She was right about his relationship to Will. Him overstepping the borders in every way possible.

But she was completely mistaken about one thing. It's too late to turn it back around. It's way too late to "_take a few steps back"_ as she suggested. He either goes on with his plan or puts an end to it. There aren't any gray areas.

And maybe there aren't any options at all. He cannot continue the schemes he started. He cannot risk losing control of the whole process - that would lead to incalculable consequences. The only way to secure all what he has is to kill him - it cannot be argued. He has to kill Will Graham.

Grabbing the encyclopedia resting on his desk, he throws it against the wall with such force that it splits into two, and the torn pages float down onto the floor with a quiet rustle.

Why can't he work out another solution? Why does it have to be like this? Why is there no other way?

"Too risky, too risky," he keeps reiterating in his thoughts over and over. "I can't take chances, can't endanger all that I have. There's no time for hesitation. Will is too much of a risk, too much... Stop thinking, just do it." But he just sits there by his desk, holding his head up with his hands and does not get up.

It's so hard to let it go. His plans... His achievements in manipulating Will into the perfect state of mind where Will realizes that he is not what he believes himself to be... Opening his eyes to see the world the doctor lives in - the same way Hannibal sees it... A perfect match for Hannibal's intelligence... Making him trust his inner feelings... Giving him strength to acknowledge what he really is and see the beauty in it...

He has always had the faint idea in the back of his mind that one day, he would have to let it all go. But, he has to admit, he was not ready for the day to come, and feels unable to give up the dreams he had about Will. _Dreams_... Strange word choice. Has he ever really had dreams about anything in his life? Supposedly not. If he had a desire for something, he took the necessary steps to obtain it. If he wanted to visit an opera gala, he bought a ticket and traveled there. If he wanted to hurt someone, he took a blade and cut him up. If he wanted to spend the night with a beautiful woman, he seduced her. If he wanted to convince someone, he spoke the proper lies. There was nothing complex about these needs. If he could fulfill them, he did. If not, there came the next one, and he never really cared.

Something broke inside when he met Will. His mind became filled with desires that could neither be properly explained, separated from each other, nor rationally analyzed. The only thing he can clearly distinguish is the fact that he was curious about Will and Will's decisions. At first, he felt just like a puppet-master who watches his subjects dancing on strings. It was the same moderate curiosity he had experienced before and he was quite familiar with, therefore he did not suspect that there was anything disquieting hidden underneath. He even nurtured the feeling and let it develop until it got to the point where he became too involved.

He – of all people – should have recognized the symptoms, should have realized the right time to stop...

Maybe it was the day when Will told him about kissing Alana Bloom. That really should have been the time to end the whole fiasco. For the next few days, the doctor could not stop the feeling of an intense need to kiss Doctor Bloom, just to have the same sensation that Will had felt. He should have seen that it was sick. He should have admitted to himself that the wish was bizarre and faulty.

Had it only been his personal desires to have an affair with Alana Bloom, then it would have been acceptable, but that wasn't the case. He was rather uninterested in that plain, boring woman. He should have known from the beginning... The only reason he wanted to get closer to her was that he wanted to experience exactly the same things that Will did. It should have been a warning bell for him. And there were so many others, too... All little things he didn't attach any significance to. He should have seen...

But he didn't. And now he has to pay the price. Such a pointless waste of time and effort! He was so determined to not let the world get the best of Will, to show him how beautifully unique he was, that now, it has to be him who destroys this hint of perfection. Such a sad loss.

He lets his arms fall onto the slab of the desk, though aches shoot through his wounded hand. He doesn't mind the pain.


	6. Chapter 6 The Drawing

**Chapter 6: The Drawing**

Will can't seem to recall the memories of feeling better as he had felt two days ago, when leaving Hannibal's house. Since the moment he arrived home, the illness seized him with twice the intensity it had before; and he is almost certain that it won't alleviate this time. He can't decide which one is worse: his dreams and hallucinations about a mixture of ice and ruby-red blood and gruesome murders, or the reality where he tries desperately to hang on to the fragments of his sanity. He shivers with fever as the pain gnaws its way through his joints and can hardly breathe from the horrors of his nightmares.

Once he comes to his senses, he realizes that he has been kneeling on the cool, flat floor of his bathroom. He tries to get back on his feet, although has some trouble due to the slipperiness of the tiles, and catches a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror. He looks like a corpse. His cheeks are sunken, his skin is jaundiced with waxen pallor and there are dark circles under his eyes. He wishes he hadn't seen himself, for it makes him feel much sicker – if it's possible at all to feel more miserable than he already was.

He had to cancel his lectures for the week. How can he even think about leaving the house while lacking the strength to eat a bit of something in the kitchen? He takes half a dozen kinds of medicines, but nothing helps. Last night he almost overdosed himself with antipyretics, but still, none of them were effective and did not give him even an hour of relief from the aches and the fever – they just made him feel nauseated. Time after time, he wonders how soon the moment will arrive when he simply cannot take any more of the agony.

The only thing that eases his suffering for a while is the picture he keeps on his nightstand – the drawing he stole from Hannibal. He spent nearly every sane minute of his last two days with admiring it.

The doctor drew the picture about Will and the stag from the nightmares. This alone is not of any importance to Will, but the way Hannibal drew the picture is. A dark, shadowy forest is spread out into the background of the drawing like melting frost swirls on a windowpane. Will's standing in the front, looking sorrowfully away as if he were keeping a sad secret that he wanted to hide from the viewers. And then there is the stag, standing gracefully behind Will, haughtily tilting his head back. The Illustration Will is putting one of his hands to the stag's neck, making it appear that there exists a soft, intimate inner-connection between the two of them.

Will has never thought of himself as good-looking, let alone worthy of being the model of a drawing. Yet he looks so otherworldly, so curiously beautiful on the picture that he can't imagine how the doctor could manage to make it to even resemble him. Is that the way Hannibal sees him? His heart drops at the thought.

But the beauty of his depiction is still not what fascinates him most about the drawing. It's the stag. In fact, it rather scares him.

It's not merely an illustration of a stag similar to the one in his dreams. It's not just a fine likeness. It's _the _stag. Hannibal drew the picture of the exact stag Will sees in his nightmares. Even the curves of the antler, the shades, the darkness in the eyes... Every small detail seems to fit.

Is it even possible? It's hardly credible that the doctor imagined the stag the same way Will does in his hallucinations. Is there any chance that it can be true? The whole thing seems so improbable, if not outright impossible. Will expected, on the first day, for the drawing to shift shapes. He supposed that it must have been a delusion, his tortured mind deceiving him, but no matter how long he kept gazing at the picture, it wouldn't change. As time passed, he slowly started to believe his eyes.

"Well, I talked to him about the stag during our sessions," he tries to create a plausible explanation. "I brought up this topic few times. Maybe, I gave a very detailed description, and now I just can't remember telling him... And, of course, stags are not so different. It's most likely that he thought of the same kind of stag I dreamt of."

But he knows that it's not good enough for an answer. What holds him spellbound about the picture is not just the animal's physical appearance - that could be explained by his multiple hypotheses - but the overall impression the stag makes. When he looks at the drawing, he can almost see the trembling leaves, the icy wind crawling around the blackening trees, the swirling shadows of the forest... It's _the _stag from his dreams.

And he is not sure anymore about in whose mind the stag really lives. Is it his or the doctor's?

* * *

Will sits on the couch in the living-room of his house. The heating system went out five hours ago, and he feels too weak to take care of it. He just threw a blanket around his shoulders, and while resting his bruised chin on his folded knees, holds the drawing in his shaking hands and keeps gawking at it.

He only takes his eyes off of the picture when a shadow is cast onto the paper, and he realizes that there's someone else in the room. At first, he is not completely sure if it's just his delusions or reality, so he slowly, painfully turns toward the direction of his visitor to check.

Hannibal Lecter stands in the middle of the room, his arms crossed. The doctor's gray coat has frost marks on it, showing that he spent a long time outside in the cold weather.

Will is certain that Hannibal is not a hallucination. He hasn't seen nor had mirages about the doctor except the one when he felt Hannibal hugging him on the floor of his living room, but that was only once.

How did Hannibal get inside? Will didn't forget to lock the door, did he? He can recall the faint memory of fumbling with his keys on the doorstep when he arrived home. Is it possible that Hannibal climbed in through the old kitchen window? Will deems this option quite unlikely. He must have forgotten about locking the door, then.

"Er, hello, Doctor Lecter," he greets the other man, unable to keep the tone of surprise out of his voice.

"Why have you been looking at that drawing for at least two hours now?" The doctor asks calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the universe that he is standing there, in the middle of someone else's home, unannounced.

"How do you know...?" Will's voice dies away. He realizes that the only way Hannibal can know about his deeds in the past few hours is if the doctor kept watch of him from outside. "You spent two hours in the cold storm and kept staring at me through the front window?" Maybe, he should've left it unmentioned, but this idea only occurs to him after he blurted the words out.

"Yes." Hannibal's reply is matter-of-fact. "But my question. The answer, please?"

"Well, uh, sorry. Sorry for stealing your drawing." Will places the picture next to him on the couch.

"That's not an answer."

Will bites his lower lip. The dizziness caused by the fever becomes so overpowering in his head that it leaves him with barely any strength to beget a sensible response. He needs a minute of silence to regain his ability to speak.

"I'd rather not talk about it," he utters then, faltering. "Why have you visited me anyway?"

Now it's Hannibal's turn to keep silent. Will almost starts to doubt that the doctor would ever give any reply when Hannibal finally takes a slow breath, and answers, "I came here to kill you."

Will expects the room to turn into a chamber of ice, for blood to explode from the corners, or something of the kind because there should be other cruel signs of being in a nightmarish hallucination, and he finds it strange that he only misheard one sentence the doctor has said and nothing else to show the symptoms of being wrapped up in a hallucination. But he must have misunderstood the last sentence, that is apparent.

"Okay, sorry, I think my mind is playing tricks on me again," he says with a tired, remote smile. "So, why are you here?"

Silence again. Will's heart starts to betray him. He looks up, straight at the doctor's face, though he rarely does so, but now he needs to see, he needs to know for sure...

Hannibal's eyes are so cold, like a million shards of icicles stinging into his skin. No... no...

Hannibal straightens his arms which were folded so far, and Will can suddenly see that the doctor holds a knife in his right hand. No... please, no... Let this be a dream... please...

Will feels Hannibal grasping him by the arm, tugging him upwards from the couch, shoving him across the room against the wall. Will's head hits the window-frame hard... Oh, alright, the pain is much better than to think...

Hannibal stands in front of him, pressing Will against the wall, keeping the sharp blade to his throat. All he just has to do is make a quick cut, and then it's all over... What is he waiting for?

"Why don't you ask anything? Don't you want to know _why_?" The doctor whispers. His hands are slightly trembling, and now there's fire burning in his eyes Will has never seen there before.

No... Will is unable to speak, but begs him soundlessly in his thoughts to cut. Do it. Don't leave me with enough time to understand...

"I want you to know the truth about me," Hannibal goes on, when he sees that Will won't give any response.

No, no, please, don't explain...

For the first time, Will wishes for the fever to overwhelm him so completely that he would never be able to think again.

Hannibal speaks, and Will tries not to listen, but it's near impossible to perfectly shut out everything the doctor says. The long-term relationship Will believed Hannibal had with someone... The doctor wasn't meeting a mysterious lover, but went out to kill... Why is he emphasizing this circumstance? Will doesn't want to know. A young girl... And there were others...

"I've killed so many people," Hannibal's voice is just a hiss in the distance.

Enough... enough...

Will closes his eyes. How many times has the doctor killed? He doesn't want to _feel_ it. He doesn't want to _know_, but his ability to empathize with serial killers is too strong, he cannot keep himself from starting to imagine... He remembers the scene when Hannibal was in the ambulance car with a patient. _The blood... so much blood..._

The doctor is still talking, but Will can hardly understand any of it.

_There are cut out organs in front of him on an operating table... Everything's clean, washed, organized... A bowl of innards on his left... The tiles of the floor are porcelain-white... The heart is still pulsating... Its redness so pure... There is water running from a tap... Silent dripping... Scalpels are jingling..._

With the last remnants of his mental strength, he opens his eyes and pushes the pictures out of his mind, though a sea of pain floods his veins afterwards and shakes his whole body.

"Will, Will." He hears the doctor calling his name. "Are you alright?"

Why does he ask? He's going to cut his throat through the next minute. Why bother?

"Will, say something to me," Hannibal demands. "Anything."

He gulps, trying to obey the order and create an answer for the doctor, but there isn't much to say as far as he can think of. Should he start cursing and blaming Hannibal for being a serial killer and for deceiving him? Why? He should have known that the bond he formed with the doctor would be so important and unique for him... He has never deduced that such an emotion would even exist for him... Of course it all ended up being just a lie.

Or should he start begging him not to kill him? Pleading for mercy? Asking him why he has to die?

Or should he just talk about how much it hurts?

What is he supposed to say?

"I'm thankful to you," he finally mumbles. That's at least something he is sure of.

Hannibal stares at him. Will's words must have struck him with astonishment.

"Thankful for what?" The doctor asks hoarsely. His face seems as white as a ghost in the ill-lit murk of the room.

"For killing me now." And the fever eventually takes over. Will hangs his head and collapses in Hannibal's arms. He expects the sharp cut of the knife at his neck to be the last thing he ever senses, but the feeling doesn't come.

The illness makes the whole world turn dark before his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7 The Fall

**Chapter 7: The Fall**

When Hannibal sees Will lose consciousness, he acts on impulse, throws the knife away – not even bothering to follow it with his eyes to watch where it lands – and holds Will's lifeless body in his arms, keeping him against his chest. He can't bear the thought of letting Will fall to the ground.

He thrusts his shoulder under Will's numb arm and half-carries, half-drags him across the rooms to his bed. There, he makes him lie down on the shabby blanket.

The cracked, worn boards of the floor creak under the doctor's feet as he sits down next to the younger man. The stormy winds besiege the cheap, thin windowpanes, causing them to fly slightly ajar. Though the house seems to be filled with the noises of the dying nature, Hannibal somehow manages to find everything distant and dim. For a long while, he keeps his eyes on a silvery wrapper of a bar of chocolate resting on the floor.

He stays there, sitting on the side of the bed, close to the younger man, and starts to completely lose track of his thoughts. One moment, he thinks of searching for the knife and cutting Will's throat, but the next, he caresses Will's hollow cheeks with his fingertips. The room turned completely dark, everything turned dark. The only thing he can see is Will lying there, senselessly. Why can't he think clearly?

He has to get up, look for the knife and cut Will's throat. He must... Right now... It's highly important... It's _vital_.

But the rational thoughts just whirl in and out of his mind and don't take any effect. He doesn't even turn towards the door.

What if he grasps the knife and cuts? What happens then?

Will would be dead, lying in a pool of red blood in the middle of the bed... Hannibal would cover him with the blanket... Will's eyes would be open from the sudden pain of the fatal cut... The doctor would close them.

Hannibal slowly lifts up his right palm and puts it on Will's eyelids. He tries to imagine...

_Will's dead. Truly dead. He killed him with his own hands._

_At first, he feels content. He did it, he freed himself from the dangerous dependence he was shoved into. Yes, he must admit, it was a sort of dependence he experienced with Will. Now it's over. He defeated it. He won._

And what about tomorrow?_ He would wake up in his dark bedroom, knowing that he is completely alone in the world, and there will be no reason to get up. It will be a cold and boring day. Nothing will happen, and, in fact, there would not be much that could happen at all. He might search for prey and kill someone. He might see some patients during sessions. These are just routines. Routines, events – mechanical and uninteresting. He is indifferent about them. They won't have any effect on him._

_That play of light... The glimmering of fever in those light-colored eyes... Will won't stand in the doorway of his office, won't ever visit him out of the blue..._

And what about the day after tomorrow?_ He will get up for the same, boring nothing as he did the day before. Dark, cold, silence... Everything will seem to become gray._

What will happen two weeks later? _Monotony. Blunt, soundless apathy. He might try to search for something that can grab his attention, but it will be rather useless... He won't feel any pain, won't feel despair... He won't feel anything. Just the bereft, empty void..._

What will happen a year later? _Getting used to it. Perfectly dispassionate, bald and colorless steps will create the order of his days..._

Abruptly, Hannibal shoves his fingers into Will's hair and rests beside him. He hears the heaves of the younger man's lungs and every beat of his heart. The heat of Will's fever creeps under his skin, making him take the same ragged, erratic breaths the unconscious younger man does. He climbs on top of Will, wanting madly to feel every inch of him pressed against his skin, almost crushing the tormented, weak body with his weight. He brushes his lips against the frail skin on Will's neck, taking in the sweet scent of illness and sensing the pulses of the artery with his mouth.

The fever is not just a faint reflection of Will's illness in his veins anymore, Hannibal is sure that it truly burns in his head, sending cold shivers down on his spine and igniting painful fire in his muscles. His lips are still touching Will's neck, and he is unable to break the contact. He starts kissing the younger man, his face, his forehead with blind, desperate kisses, wherever he can reach the pale, shivering skin.

He needs some time to comprehend that Will can barely breathe under his body. When he finally realizes it, he slightly shifts his position so that his upper arms around Will's shoulders could support some of his weight. The motion makes Will quietly whimper.

"Doctor Lecter," he groans, opening his eyes.

Hannibal expects a violent push against his chest as an attempt from Will to free himself, but the younger man just looks up at him with his sore, lackluster eyes and whispers his name again weakly. "_Doctor Lecter_."

The doctor puts his fingers to Will's lips. He continues kissing Will's forehead.

"Why don't you just kill me?" Will's voice is tired and full of pain.

"I don't want to know what it's like without you," the doctor answers quietly.

Will shuts his eyes as if he were wishing for falling back to unconsciousness again. "You could take me to a hospital, then, you know. If... if you really don't want to hurt me..." His voice is blurred. "I have no idea what kind of illness this is, but it's killing me. And... and the fever... Could you do that, please?"

"I'm afraid I can't." Hannibal answers between two kisses. "It would mean losing you."

As the doctor pulls his hand away from the feverishly hot cheek to stroke the disheveled, disorderly curls of Will's hair, he sees a bloodstain on the younger man's face at the exact place where his palm rested a moment before. He almost starts to wonder what could have injured Will, but then realizes that the blood is not Will's, it's his. The troublesome cut on his left hand is soaking its bandages with bright red, salty blood. It broke out anew, even though he stitched it up yesterday for the third time.

He sighs.

"Nothing's ever going to heal it," he utters very softly. "There is no cure in this world either for you or for me."

And he kisses Will's temple.

"Please, try to concentrate." Will's weary mutter is almost inaudible. "Your wound is bleeding again, there must be a serious problem with it. You should have it checked immediately. And... and you have to take me to a hospital as well, I need strong medicines, otherwise I..."

"I can't." The doctor interrupts gently. "I don't want to go back to the familiar emptiness of the same old routines."

"What are you planning to do, then?" The helpless, vulnerable tenderness of the question suggests that Will wants to hear a firm reassuring answer from the doctor, but Hannibal can't think of any.

"I don't know," he murmurs instead, moving his head back down to Will's neck. "Let us both lose the remains of our sanity. I don't care what comes afterwards. Anything can happen."

"Please, please, just take me to a hospital. I won't tell anybody..." Will breathes into Hannibal's hair. "Or kill me. Do it, kill me. I can't take it. This pain is too much..."

The doctor lifts his head up slightly to touch Will's bruised chin with his lips. He whispers, "I want to know what it's like to belong. I want my world to be completely yours and yours to be mine."

"This will torture and kill us both." Will is panting heavily against Hannibal's arms. The younger man's t-shirt is already sticky and permeated with the doctor's blood.

"I know. But I want it either way. Do you?"

Will looks at him, eyes watery and bleary. He seems to lose the last fragments of his strength to hang on. He nods ever so slightly that the gesture is hardly noticeable, but Hannibal catches it, and it's enough for him to let every sober thought fall apart in his head. He collapses on Will's broken body and buries his face in the damp, trembling skin of the curve of his neck. Will feebly embraces the doctor's shoulders.

Hours later, they are still lying in the same position in the palpable cold of the blackening room. The tiring, excessive heat of the fever pulled them into a nebulous, amorphous, sleep-like state. And they both dream about a stag. An eerie stag with unworldly eyes full of darkness.

_- The End -_


End file.
